The recent advent of first and second class mail
has led me to wondering what effect such a move would have on musicians
should they decide to grade themselves likewise. I mean first and
second class musicianship intentionally, not the way it is now.

You are booked as a first class musician, so you
turn up well on time, play no wrong notes and behave impeccably. As
a second class musician, you turn up when you like, goof away all
evening and get drunk and spew over the customers. Bookers and agents
have to stipulate very carefully what class of musicianship they require—and
pay accordingly. With writing, it will be possible to turn out a second–class
symphony, or a first–class pop song.

Any musician. contravening the requirements—playing
first–class jazz at a second–class session, or vice versa—will automatically
be banished to the Land Of A Thousand Tone Holes by the MU, and not
allowed out until he mends his ways. But I suspect that the second–class
musician would still be worked to death–as ever!

Pop goes a million I resent hearing about pop millionaires. It’s not that I’m jealous
at all—I just can’t stand the amount of time and space taken up with
their inane likes and dislikes in countless magazines, papers and
over the air. Who really cares what colour their bathrooms are anyway?
What I do deplore is that Charlie Parker, Bix Beiderbecke, Big Bill
Broonzy, Billie Holiday and countless others died still needing the
where–withall to survive. It is too easy to dismiss such talented
but unfortunate beings as victims of circumstances while the pop millionaires
live it up in their recently acquired Georgian manors. But if these
musical perverts can get into their black satin–sheeted beds, turn
out their gilt, carved table lamps, close their eyes and not get the
screaming horrors about the crap they are perpetrating in the name
of music, then I can only hope that the myth of Hell isn’t a myth
at all.

As I was saying to my butler only the other day:
“For goodness sake change the table cloth, Mahatma–I’ve read it!”

No name jive What a great pity it was that the British musicians who have accompanied
the visiting American musicians at Ronnie Scott’s Club over the years
were not mentioned by name during the otherwise excellently presented
TV film about the Club recently. Tubby Hayes did get a mention, but
only by way of an apology for his non–appearance–and that was only
when the film was over, Ron speeding away into the distance to God
knows where, while the credits went whizzing by. I did like, however,
the sardonic touch of Ronnie’s voice praising the “non–American valid
jazz” heard in his club and the picture that went with it–a close–up
of Canadian Ken Wheeler.

Apart from the inference that the shots were filmed
at the club and the over–plugging of the Americans featured. I thought
it a first–class jazz documentary. We could do with regular films
like this. It was both informative and entertaining.

The link–ups from Ronnie’s team into the filmed concerts
were executed with great skill and artistry and must have been the
work of Stan Tracey. The balance between the music and the chat must
have pleased all but the most anti–jazz people.

But the names of the guys who have thumped their
hearts out over the years providing a first–class rhythm section for
most of the visitors were not to he heard. The work these musicians
have done is no mean feat, when you consider the prima donna temperaments
of some of the stars. Whoever is to blame for the omission of these
names should be forced to shout them from the roof of the club non–stop
for a month.

Even if the British Broadcasting Corporation doesn’t
approve of promoting British, at least it could mention the names
of the musicians without which such a venture could never have happened.

Canned music A recent edition of the TV feature Tomorrow’s World included a
peep at an American composer who had devised a method of playing taped
sounds of racing cars. jet planes, and other such products of civilisation
through an organ made up of tin cans, bottoms and tops removed and
taped together in various lengths. Strangely, the effect produced
was pleasant and I quite enjoyed it. What a wonderful way of making
use of the waste products of our age! Far better than sitting down
with a pile of virgin score paper and writing special rubbish for
all occasions.

Buying a pupIt would appear that the BBC has a predilection for infant canines.
Time and time again I am amazed at the talent, artistry and money
that is regularly expended producing programmes around kinky folk
and pop stars. The content of these shows is worse than rubbish, but
it is presented in such a highly professional manner that you are
liable to imagine that what you have heard is a folk–art of musical
merit. Sadly, this is not the case. The tasteful wrapping camouflages
the ‘moody’.

I don’t doubt for one minute the sincerity of all
concerned, but when you buy something, you do so in good faith. May
I suggest that the BBC gets itself some talented buyers?